jeanine fritz

A few days ago, I started wondering who had it better: me or Bigfoot.

(I know how that sounds, but I still don't think I've completely snapped.)

See, sometimes it feels as though everything's gone sideways.

The other morning I woke up feeling as if while I slept, a brick wall had been constructed horizontally over the bed solely so I would smack into it when I sat up.

You know the feeling: You're having a lovely dream, everything is rad, maybe you're high-fiving the Kool-Aide dude, and he's mixing up the whiskey drinks for you both because you're too busy driving a solid gold speedboat named "Sabado Gigante" off a firey ramp and over a dozen monster trucks filled with hot Latin pool boys on your way to judge a ribeye barbecuing competition. And then you wake up and remember things kind of suck.

I started to cry, but booooring! Please. That's SO all-the-fucking-time-since-I-first-learned-to-cry.

I tried being angry, but been there, done that too.

Then a fresh idea hit me: I could quit everything I'm doing and disappear into the mountains, somewhere northwest, probably Oregon, and stay there, living off the land, probably in a poorly-constructed lean-to, using a sock stuffed with dandelions for a pillow, drinking rainwater out of leaves, eating berries and bark and beetles -- definitely not paying taxes -- far, far, SO far from the internet and work and reality television stars on grocery store magazines and just be silent for a long, long while.

"Like a...like a monk! No, a hermit!" I whispered to my coffee cup.

I know a hermit, and he's badass to hang out with, despite how oxymoronic that sounds. I four-wheeled up to his cabin, he showed me around, and then we just flopped on our backs on the dirt road and smoked and didn't speak for an hour. It was magical.

But no, clearly becoming a hermit wasn't gonna be extreme enough if girls were going to come by and lay on my dirt road, smoking and thinking so loudly. I needed to be more than a hermit. And then I had it: I could be Bigfoot. Nobody visits him. He just tromps around the woods doing his Bigfoot thing, maybe rummaging through campsites at night, stealing beer and jerky like a reverse-Santa.

And so instead of obsessing over the metaphorical brick wall and all the things that'd led to its construction, I went about my day, doing my Fritzie thing, and wondering, if given the choice, it'd be better to be me, or to be Bigfoot. I made a mental pro and con list.

Something I have over Bigfoot: I have easy access to awesome beer. Point: Fritz.

On the other hand, Bigfoot never gets collect calls -- in fact he never has to answer a phone ever. Point: Bigfoot.

I suspect I'll be playing this mental game on and off for the rest of the summer. If you're lucky, you'll only be subjected to this one missive, but since I already have a long pro-con list, and no idea what to write about next week, I wouldn't hold your breath.